The Christmas Violin. Buffy Andrews
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tears as the shuttle passed a string of hotels and restaurants on the road leading to the airport. Camilla loved Disney World. She wanted to get married in Disney’s Wedding Pavilion near the Magic Kingdom. But when her mother protested a destination wedding, she opted for a Disney-themed reception instead.
From the wedding invitations to the cake topper, everything was Disney-related. Instead of numbers on each table, there were names of Disney movies. The place card holders were in the shape of a carriage and the wedding favors were small glass slippers filled with miniature mints.
He smiled, remembering how happy Camilla was that day. He was her prince and they would live happily ever after. Neither of them ever imagined that she would be gone four years later. That’s the problem with cancer, he thought. It doesn’t care what your plans are; it has plans of its own.
Peter closed his tired eyes. He pictured Camilla walking down the aisle, her white sleeveless gown flowing behind her. Her blonde wavy hair, topped with a silver tiara, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. So beautiful, he thought. So very beautiful.
“Southwest coming up,” the shuttle driver shouted.
Peter sniffed. He turned away from the window. The shuttle pulled into the drop-off zone and Peter stood. He smiled at the couple.
“Have a great honeymoon. And don’t miss the fireworks at Cinderella’s Castle. Tinkerbell flies through the air.”
“Thanks,” the woman said. “Have a good trip.”
Peter grabbed his attaché case and dug into his pocket for money to tip the driver, who was waiting on the sidewalk with Peter’s luggage.
As the shuttle pulled away, Peter wheeled his suitcase toward the curbside check-in kiosk. He dug into his pants pocket for another five. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man carrying a little girl with a mass of red curls.
He was back at the cemetery. He could hear the music, see her swaying as she played the sweet lullaby. Something about the song was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Willow Elizabeth Channing
“Look, I told you. I’m not ready,” said Willow, clenching her cell phone to her ear.
“You’ve been saying that for nearly two years,” said her manager, Oscar Fiennes. “Don’t you think it’s about time?”
Willow took a deep breath and counted to five. She was tired of having this conversation with Oscar. She knew he meant well, but still. She stopped traveling to perform when Luke died. In her mind, it’s what caused Luke’s death. The way Willow saw it, if she hadn’t been traveling she wouldn’t have been at the airport. And if she hadn’t been at the airport, Luke wouldn’t have been there with his nanny, Miss Trotter, to pick her up. And if Luke hadn’t been at the airport with Miss Trotter to pick her up, he wouldn’t have darted across the busy street when he saw her. And if he hadn’t darted across the street to get to her, he wouldn’t have been hit. And if he hadn’t been hit, he wouldn’t have died. So, it was all her fault. At least, that’s what she believed.
So, for the past year and a half she couldn’t bring herself to leave him, even for a night. Each day, she’d visit his grave and play the lullaby he loved. She wrote it for him when he was still in her womb.
She played a concert or two at the local performing arts center, but it wasn’t like playing in Carnegie Hall or London’s Royal Festival Hall. But she figured she deserved that.
“Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Oscar pleaded. “No one plays Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto better than you.”
Willow bit her lower lip. Oscar knew the piece was one of her favorites. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than nailing that piece in front of a packed house. And especially at Carnegie, where she had made her debut as a featured soloist in the Easter Festival Concert.
“Willow,” Oscar said. “Please think about it. You need to return to the stage before they stop calling. You have to stop beating yourself up.”
“I’ll think about it,” Willow said.
Oscar smiled. It was the first time since Luke’s death that Willow said she would think about performing outside of the small city in which she lived. He wanted to get her touring again, but he knew he had to follow Willow’s lead. She determined the time signature. If it was too complex, too fast, he’d lose her. And he didn’t want to lose her, not when there was a sixteenth note of hope.
The Old Woman
The small boy, clutching his mother’s hand at the crosswalk, stared at the old woman. She wore a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap over her salt and pepper hair held in a ponytail with a piece of red yarn.
“I have that hat,” said the little boy, pointing with his inch-long finger.
The old woman looked at the boy, her cracked, thin lips peeling back to reveal a gummy smile. When the walking sign flashed, the mom and boy took off as the old woman shuffled across the busy city street, her metal cart clanking as she went.
The old woman was used to seeing fingers pointed at her and hearing people whisper about her. She was used to being called the “crazy cart lady.”
It was true. She was crazy. Sometimes she spent the entire day walking the city streets talking to herself. And sometimes she couldn’t get the voices in her head to shut up. They whispered to her. Told her she was a slut. A piece of trash. No good.
The only friend she had, if you could even call him that, was the cemetery caretaker. He was a kind man who sometimes left her a thermos of soup and some hard, crusty bread, the kind that’s good for sopping up broth.
She licked her lips. A cup of chicken broth would taste mighty fine right now, chase the autumn chill from her old bones.
She had met the caretaker on a morning much like today. Autumn was tumbling into winter and the caretaker noticed a lump wrapped in a green blanket wiggle in the bushes behind the storage shed. Then he saw her head peek out of the fuzzy cocoon and he realized it was her home.
His first act of kindness was purposely hiding the key to the storage shed under a nearby rock while she watched. She suspected that he viewed her as a feral cat; he wanted to help, but didn’t want to get too close. In all the time they’ve known each other, they’ve never actually spoken. Their communication consists of nods and gummy smiles.
She wheeled her cart past Dollar Mart, Mama’s Pizza; past Little Funeral Home and Christ Lutheran Church. When she turned the corner at Broad and Main streets, she stopped abruptly, braking like a driver who sees a stop sign too late. The line to get into Our Daily Bread soup kitchen was already a block long. Her hope for a piece or two of bacon faded faster than a wet sidewalk on a sunny day.
Peter James
Peter weaved through the queue at the airport, past the TSA agent and to the scanner. He flipped off his leather loafers and threw his keys and loose change into a gray plastic bin. He didn’t mind flying, but he thought the screening process had become a huge pain in the ass. Still, he understood why it was necessary. Damn terrorists, he thought. World hasn’t been the same since.
He watched his attaché case enter the scanner. Even though he knew there was nothing in his attaché case to worry about, the scanner spooked Peter. It made him think about Camilla and the day they found the tumor. Scanners could reveal secrets you didn’t know you had.
On the outside, Camilla looked well. She worked out a few times a week and prided herself on eating healthy. She rarely got sick, and when she did, it was usually nothing she had to see a doctor about. But the migraines had gotten worse and Camilla eventually relented. She went to the doctor.
They slid Camilla inside that doughnut-shaped machine and found what was causing her terrible migraines – an invasive brain tumor.
Damn,